


To the Broken Ones

by Grond



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angband, Balrogs, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Corruption, Difficult Decisions, Enemies, Enemies to Lovers, Fire, Fire Powers, Injury, M/M, Magic, Mental Health Issues, POV Alternating, Post-Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Prisoner of War, Recovery, Redemption, Romance, Singing, Trauma, Villains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:41:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29232459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grond/pseuds/Grond
Summary: Fingon survives the Nírnaeth Arnoediad, through the intervention of an unlikely savior. He finds himself in the clutches of the Enemy—but he does not find himself alone.Címaruinë, a Maia of Melkor, has always taken joy in killing Elves, but when he catches sight of Fingon, High King of the Noldor, on the battlefield—he takes flight with him, instead.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Durin's Bane | Balrog of Moria
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	1. A Burning Thing

Fingon had expected to die.

This was not death. Instead, he was floating, suspended in darkness. He had never been so isolated or so lost. It was as if he had been sealed away from Arda entirely. He had no sense of the passing of time; no sense of anything save a dim awareness of self, enough consciousness to realize he was stranded. Was this what it was like to be trapped in the Void? What had brought him to this state, and how long would he remain so? His force of will was diminished, but what he had remaining to him, he used to rail silently against this interminable emptiness. 

Finally—far, far away, Fingon made out a noise. It was the first thing outside of himself he had experienced here, the first indication that he might not have been abandoned to this abyss forever.

He strained to hear it more clearly, but he did not need to, as it grew slowly and steadily louder. The noise could not rightly be called music, or singing. It consisted of a combination of sounds that suggested intent and design, but it was too discordant to be a song as Elves defined the concept. It was more like wind shrieking, dueting with metal shattering, with a deep counterpoint of earth rumbling. It was a blizzard and an earthquake and a landslide in one. What was capable of such a cacophony? He winced. His instinct was to recoil from the clamor, but instead he found himself moving toward it. He had no control over his fate. He drifted ever closer to the uproar, pulled along like a leaf in a current, through nothingness toward— _something_.

Why did a noise that repelled him so strongly compel him so deeply?

Returning to life, to the world, was not easy. Suddenly, there was air to take in again, but it was thick, sulfurous and hot, almost too heavy and searing to bear. How could anyone survive in this atmosphere? Miraculously, Fingon had. It did not seem likely, or possible, but he was breathing. Each inhalation was a struggle. Pain had wound its way around him like a serpent and was set upon squeezing every portion of his body in its coils. He was helpless in its grip. At any moment, it might swallow him whole.

He could feel, but he could not yet see. Was the whole world dark, or were his eyes closed? Usually a simple enough distinction to make, but he was too dazed to know the difference. Images of the battle returned to him: the blue falling banners, the churned earth dark with blood, the red blaze of unfriendly fire. The towering forms of his enemies, blotting out the sky above, closing in on him. He had been bound, then struck. The blow had been of such force, it had shuddered all through him—

It could not have killed him, for he was alive. These were not the Halls of Mandos; he doubted Mandos would allow his realm to become so chokingly hot or smell so foul. That was clear, but less so was the reason he had lived. He sorted through what he could remember of his last moments of consciousness. Surrounded by Valaraukar, his body bound, the black axe descending… then nothing. He had not been slain, but he retained no awareness of what had happened next.

No sign of comfort was present to reassure him. The ground beneath him was hard and uneven. That told him it was unlikely he had been rescued and removed for rest and healing by his allies, who would not have left him lying so haphazardly for so long. No, was undoubtedly not with friends, but he must have been taken from the field by someone. Otherwise, his enemies would have torn him to pieces. His body was bruised and battered, but he was more or less whole. 

What had happened to the noise that had drawn him in? He heard no trace of it now, and was no closer to determining what had made the awful noise. Fingon listened closely, straining to pick it out, or to catch any noise that might indicate where he was. He heard a single sound, strange and soft, a low constant. It bubbled faintly, like water, but there was such a heaviness to it, it did not sound like any stream or river he had ever heard; nor did it put him in mind of the sea. It reminded him more of a distant rumble in the earth, the beginnings of a tremor. If earth could be water in the same moment, this was the sound it would make.

Fingon grimaced. Nothing his senses told him pleased or reassured him. He had not expected to be blessed by good fortune, but he had had a faint hope. His optimism was diminishing, but his wits, at least, were returning. He was clear-headed enough to realize that his eyes were closed. A simple fact, but one that had eluded him for too long.

He had to open his eyes. A single movement, one he had carried out countless times. There was no question of avoiding it, but that small effort felt distant and incredible. How could it be done? He had never known such pain, binding his body, pressing on his chest and transforming even the usually effortless drawing of breath into a battle.

The battle. Where were those who had fought beside him? His family, his friends, his comrades—Did they yet live? Who had taken the day? He had numberless questions, but he found no answers in this darkness. Once the tide of the battle had turned against them, it had brought with it a wave of despair, but if he lived, the light of hope had not been extinguished. It was this—this wild hope, and his concern for his people—that fueled him, providing him not only the strength to open his eyes, but to turn his head slightly, to see for himself the truth of the place where he found himself. 

He breathed in sharply at what he saw, too sharply. It hurt his lungs, but that did not stop him from exhaling just as quickly, expelling the foul air he'd breathed in. Dark, jagged stone and liquid fire surrounded him on all sides. As he put forth the painful effort to move his head a further fraction, he discovered that he lay in the center of a broad island of rock, surrounded by glowing molten stone. Far from the battlefield. Far, it seemed, from his fellow Elves. Eyes widening in horror, he watched the edges of the fiery liquid as it lapped at the solid stone. He had to track its advance, to guess how much time remained before it devoured the stone and surged in to consume him.

Moments passed, and the line of fire remained constant. It held its position, though he could hear it singing its low, expectant, hungry song. Was this stone impervious to it, or was some force holding it back? As soon as he had ascertained that it was not an immediate threat—not yet—he looked up. Above him, he saw nothing but darkness. A yawning cavern, so vast he could not see the stone ceiling above, if there was one.

Fingon licked his lips, but that did him no good. His tongue was as dry as the rest of his mouth. All his skin felt baked by the heat, except where the pain was sharper. At those points, he was aware of no sensation except the throbbing aches of wounds, which blotted out lesser discomforts. So many injuries, yet no killing blow had claimed him. _Why do I live?_ He did not imagine the Valaraukar knew the meaning of mercy, let alone were capable of offering it to an Elf.

The more details he took stock of, the more dread fought back his hope. By all appearances, he was deep below the earth, held prisoner in a pit of fire. The molten rock was so hot, and its glow so intense, he could not see beyond it in any direction. Fingon's observations left him more hungry for information, but he did not want to push himself too far. He should conserve his strength, yet he could not resist testing his limbs, to see which of them he could lift, and how far. As soon as he began this experiment, he encountered an unnatural limit. When trying to lift his arms, he could only raise them so high before they met with a solid, unyielding limit. A weight held them back, heavy on his forearms.

Fingon sighed. He needed to know what that held him. He had turned his head a little already, enough to see a little farther to his right and left. He had not looked down at himself to see what state the rest of his body was in. Moving his neck to the necessary angle sent pain shooting down his spine, but he persevered for the instant it was necessary.  
A dark yet shining chain bound him. It ran across his body, looping around both his wrists. He could not see where it was fixed on either side of him, but it was held fast. It was a chain he despised the sight of—not only because it bound him, but because of the malice in its glimmer. Foul magic had gone into its making. He had seen a chain like this before, around Maedhros' wrist. It told Fingon unequivocally whose power he was under.

Fingon's first impulse was to fight the chain, to throw the force of his body and will against it, but he did not, for two reasons. His last encounter with such a chain had taught him its near invincibility, a grim lesson. He also had to be careful of expending his energy when he had so little to spare. He would surely need every last, bitter scrap of it. 

Instead of struggling, Fingon remained still and composed himself. He processed all he had learned in the past several minutes while searching the present for possibilities and finding few. It was hard to believe how hopeful he had been, at the battle's beginning, so recently yet so long ago. Flushed with promise and determination before his armies, he could not have envisioned this end. 

He should not have spoken so blissfully then, for the echo of his earlier words haunted him. _The day has come!_ He had been right in a sense, but the day that had come to him had been the day of misery and dread—not joy and victory. He took another brief look down at himself. Remnants of the battle clung to him. He still wore his armor, but it was dented, stained with blood and mud, and pieces were missing. He had no idea where his helmet was; it must have fallen off. His aches spoke loudly of his injuries, but he did not feel the wetness of blood on his body, only pain.

As he took stock of his situation, Fingon became aware of a phenomenon he had not discerned before. It was not a sound or scent, or anything tangible within his field of vision. No, it was another kind of sensation. He had the feeling, like a creeping over his skin, or a sense of pressure, that he was not alone. Someone was with him in this pit of fire. Not an unthinking beast, but a being who was intensely aware of him and _watching_ him. The source of his certainty was difficult to pinpoint, but no less indisputable because Fingon could not see or hear or touch it. Some Elves had greater skill than others in sensing magic or the works of the Enemy. His own abilities did not rival those of his uncles, or of certain of his cousins, but he knew better than to doubt his extraordinary senses. 

Fingon licked his lips again, fruitlessly. Carefully, methodically, he moved his eyes, scanning the stone island and the surrounding fire with his gaze alone, letting his hurt head lie as still as he could manage. There, at the farthest periphery of his vision, he spied a shape within the fire. It was a rounded promontory, dark and rough. It might have been another island of stone somehow preserved within the oppressive heat, but Fingon's sense of _presence_ insisted that it was nothing so innocuous.

Was the shape in the fire his jailor? If he were a prisoner, he might have been assigned a guard. He had not thought captivity was a likely outcome in the wild heat of battle, when so many were so set on trying to kill him. Here, in the steady heat of the fire, he believed it possible that the Enemy had chosen to spare his life to keep him as a captive. It was not as if there was no precedent for such an affront. Completely motionless, he watched the unknown shape, as he assumed it watched him. The time that passed was marked only by the murmur of the liquid stone.

Fingon waited until his eyes closed again. He did not sleep, but he must have passed out. When he returned to himself, he did not know how much time had passed. It could have been moments or weeks. There was no way of marking time. There was the fire, and there was the darkness. Neither had any distinguishing attributes or marked the progress of the hours. Fingon sought out the one feature that did stand out: the dark shape that could have been stone, that he sensed was not. 

It had changed position. It had drawn closer, and he could make it out much more clearly. The rough, dark surface of the shape was cracked, and threads of light shone through the cracks, very like the glow of the molten rocks. Most of the cracks were as thin as a sword's sharp edge, but two of them, one on each side, were wider in the middle, forming glowing shapes like tapered ovals. They had a certain symmetry. He understood the nature of the shape now. The two larger lights were eyes, shining from a broad, craggy head. Only the top half of the head was visible; the rest of it, along with the body it was attached to, must have been submerged in the glowing fire. 

Fingon was so absorbed in scrutinizing this being of flame and shadow that his awareness of his pain began to ebb. The pain had not departed, but it was temporarily eclipsed by his curiosity. He did not recognize this being by the top of its head alone, but he had seen many similar to it. It was undeniably one of Morgoth's loathsome creatures. Fingon waited, eyes half-open, body tense, to see if it would approach or otherwise shift position again. Like the molten rock, it made no advance. It remained motionless, and from what he could tell, it observed him unceasingly.

Already unnerved, Fingon's patience was stretched thin, and he could only allow himself to be studied in silence for so long before he announced, " _I see you_."

Until he called out, he had not realized how small his voice would sound in this cavernous space where the voice of the fires ruled. He had not realized how sore his throat would be, or how much effort it would take to force the words out. He would not allow the Enemy to take his words, on top of everything else. "Can you speak, or only watch?" He could sense the intent and awareness with which he was being studied, but he did not know how aware, or how intelligent this creature was. The servants of Morgoth were variable in their intellect, if not their cruelty.

Fingon waited, but no response was forthcoming. The creature remained where it was, mostly submerged. "Do you understand me?" He spoke in Sindarin, then Quenya. He did not know the vile speech of Morgoth's servants, and he did not wish to learn it. "Speak! Or will you stay there always, staring?"

His effort and anger increased his pain, and it intensified enough that it began to eclipse his curiosity with its demands. He had to pause to catch his breath and regain his strength. He would recover. This place would not defeat him, and he would not let it end him. "What are you?" he asked, when he could speak again. "Do you mean to torment me? I have no fear of you."

With a suddenness Fingon was not expecting, the creature shot up from the fire, revealing the great, dark bulk of its body. Its form was reptilian, dragon-like, though its head was rounder and shorter than a dragon's, closer in shape to a warped version of the Elvish form. It had features that would have been somewhat like his own, if he were hewn from rock and lit by inner fire. Its long body bled liquid flame, as several long gashes cut across its midsection. Was that normal for this creature, or had it been injured? It lurched nearer, but did not step onto the rock island where Fingon lay.

As it moved, it did not blink. It did not turn its head. Now that Fingon had a full view of the creature, it was more familiar to him, in the dread aura that surrounded it and the disquiet it emanated. He felt a sense of power pressing down on him. Although its reptilian form was different from what he had usually encountered on the battlefield, he did not doubt that this was one of Morgoth's most fearsome spirits—the Valaraukar. Fingon barely had time to take stock of its current guise before it shifted again, dispensing with the more reptilian aspects of its appearance and standing above him on two legs in a body that could, like its awful head, be considered a distant, corrupted relative of the Elvish form. 

Fingon had faced these creatures in battle many times, but never had he seen one shift shape this way, because it had grown—not greater, but smaller, diminishing in size until it was no more than twice his own height. Tall, but not immense. Its eyes were still of fire, but now its head wore a crown of vineline appendages that, with a stretch of the imagination, could have been considered hair. Why would it become more like him, if in a monstrous mockery, rather than make itself more intimidating and more hideous?

"I do not," it said. Of the two languages Fingon had attempted, it had chosen to use Quenya, but it did not speak it well. Its pronunciation was twisted, and its speech halting. 

Fingon had called out to it numerous times, but he had never before contemplated what it would be like to engage in conversation with one of these creatures. He had not thought he ever would. They were not known for their dialogue so much as their deadliness. Still, they were Maiar—or had been—so he was not surprised to hear speech from one, only uncertain of why it was speaking to him rather than striking him.

"You do not what?"

"Tor—ment." The Quenya word, _nwalmë_ , was so broken in the creature's mouth, Fingon puzzled over it before he understood—which taxed him further. It almost sounded as the creature had said _nwámë_ , the howling of a wolf. Likely it could howl well enough, though it had been quiet so far. Fingon expected both torment and howling from Morgoth's monsters.

"Then what do you do here?"

"I—watch."

"You watch?"

"I watch," it agreed.

Fingon was far too exhausted and injured to derive any deep meaning from this, so he did not. He accepted what he had been told. This was his guard, then, put here to watch over him and make sure he did not escape—or do anything that was not to the liking of the creature's foul master. 

"Watch me all you wish—I will never submit to you or your master." 

"I watch," said the creature again, as if this could be enough to explain all and end the conversation. Fingon did not expect honesty from one of its kind, but true to its word, it had done nothing other than watch, and that it did without hesitation or interruption.

"For how long? Are you only going to stand there, watching me?"

"Yes."

Fingon could not help but notice how, in this form as well, deep scores had been hewed into its torso, and fiery blood seeped unceasingly from them. It had been injured, then, and likely on the battlefield Fingon had been taken from. It had been one of the combatants, then, and may have drawn close to him in that circle of Valaraukar and other monsters. 

"Is this the task your master set you—guard duty?" It seemed an odd task for one of Morgoth's greatest weapons. As it was odd how the creature stood over him, its body mimicking his own form, bleeding and intent.

"No," it said.

Conversation continued to tax Fingon, but he could not give in to the pain. He kept his eyes open. He curled his hands into fists, his fingernails pressing into his palms. He may have been captured, but he would not be conquered. "Then what are you doing here?"

"I watch."

Again, the same answer. Fingon was not sure how much of the repetition was due to stubbornness, and how much due to a poor grasp of Quenya. "I see that, but why?"

The monster closed its mouth, then opened it again, baring its fangs. It was revolting, the sight of fangs in a face that mocked Elven features. Fingon's stomach churned. The Valarauko was having difficulties of its own. It vehemently objected to either the question or the thought of replying, growling instead.

"Tell me why," Fingon said, asserting himself by forcing severity and command into his tone. In spite of what speech cost him physically, he spoke with the authority of a king.

Somehow, his command had an effect. " _I wish it—!_ " the creature spat.

That was not a satisfying answer, and he could not understand why it irritated the Valarauko so much to give it. Now it was hissing and making low noises in its throat that echoed the faint, interminable sound of the molten rock. "Why—why do you wish it?" Though speaking drained him, the mental effort of comprehending this situation had the slight benefit of distracting him from his physical pain again. There was a puzzle here, although he could make out the vaguest outline of it. 

"I wish it," the creature insisted, taking refuge in repetition again. Fingon reflected that—not only had he never thought to converse with a Valarauko—he had certainly not imagined he would bear witness to one sulking, scowling as it continued to express its displeasure by hissing. There was something about this display of emotion that could almost be taken for the actions of a very feral Elf, but the more it echoed Elven behavior in its actions, the more its display sickened Fingon. Why was it behaving like this—was it a trick or a jest? Regardless, true to its word, it had not once taken its gaze from him. 

"How simple. You wish it." Selfishness, then—well, it was Morgoth's creature. Fingon feared that the sheer absurdity he faced here would be what finally did end him, rather than violence. He was tempted to hiss, himself. Maybe he had truly died, or was about to. Or he was dreaming. This could not be real. The encounter was too uncanny, too at odds with the greater gravity of his situation. 

The creature nodded. "I wish it."

"Is that all you intend to do—sit here and watch? For how long?"

"I stay," it answered him.

Did it mean permanently? Surely that would not be allowed. "Do you not have other duties to perform?"

"I stay here."

That was not exactly an answer to his question. He was not sure which was the greater disadvantage of its questionable Quenya: was it that the creature did not understand him, or that it expressed its thoughts poorly? " _I_ will not stay here," Fingon declared.

The Valarauko snorted. "You will."

"No. I will leave this place. You cannot keep me here." Now he sounded absurd. He was on an island of stone bounded by fire, and one of the infamous chains of Angband held him fast. How was he going to escape?

"You cannot leave. No way."

That was likely true. Even if the chain was not a factor, he could hardly swim through molten rock, or fly up through the darkness. He could not guess how far below the surface of the earth his prison was, but even a short distance would be enough to keep him here, if he had no tools to break through stone. "I will leave this place," he insisted nonetheless, unwilling to admit defeat, no matter the odds against him.

The Valarauko did not say anything to this, but it huffed. Its eyes narrowed, as if it feared he might be right, in spite of his disadvantages. It fell silent again, but it was still facing him, its gaze locked on him. It was like a fell statue shaped from stone and flame. He believed it could stay there indefinitely, it was so fixed and calcified. Though its mouth was closed, fangs protruded from it like short tusks. There were rows of short horns on its forehead. It stood on two legs like an Elf now, but its skin was much like that of the dragons Fingon had seen on the battlefield, armored and dark. Its eyes continued to burn. How could one of the Maiar—spirits that were fair and wise—have become this twisted being? 

"Are you really going to do nothing but stand there and watch me?" Fingon demanded, incredulous. There was no shortage of rumors concerning the many atrocities that were committed in this place, but he had never heard of a torture such as this.

The Valarauko appeared to have decided it would not answer him now, because it remained where it was, standing in the fire, regarding him balefully. Chained and wounded, Fingon's options were limited. Even if he were not hurt, the way the chain wrapped around his wrists kept him from shifting position in any meaningful way. How long could he stay alive in this situation? He was being slowly but steadily baked by the fire, breathing in bad air, and suffering from multiple wounds. He could not tell, constrained as he was, how grave or numerous his injuries were. He tried to close his eyes, to rest. Then, at least, he would not have to look at that creature.

No matter how long he remained still and silent, willing himself to rest, or at least to think of something else, Fingon remained keenly aware of the presence of the thing and its gaze upon him.

"You will not be able to watch me for much longer if this continues," he said at last, tired of being stared at. He kept his eyes stubbornly shut, but he could not resist debating his captor. 

"I watch," the Valarauko insisted, maddeningly. 

"You must not know how to care for Elves since you only go about the business of killing them." He was not sure what result he was hoping to achieve by reminding the creature of the possibility of his demise.

"I will not kill." It was almost funny to hear a Valarauko say so, but Fingon had no will to laugh. The words were an insult. Of course it would kill. If not him, now, it would take so many lives—from Fingon's own people and others. 

"I am injured—you cannot keep me here and do nothing and expect me to thrive!" What was wrong with the thing? Was it perhaps the least capable of the Valaraukar? Perhaps that was why it had been sentenced to guard duties. Its mind could have become too addled by its corruption. Yet as he entertained the thought, it struck him as unlikely. Morgoth did not allow weakness, did not offer ease. "Don't you understand that?'

"Yes, Eldar die." It did not sound concerned, but it did not sound pleased.

Fingon heard it stirring, and he had to open his eyes, to see what it was doing. It approached, finally climbing up onto his island of rock. His eyes widened, and he tensed within his chains, pulling against them instinctively, although he knew the effort to move away was in vain.

The air of horror increased as the creature knelt down beside him and picked up—his helmet? He had not seen it there. It had not fallen off. It must have been pulled off and placed on the stone beside him, positioned above the crown of his head, precisely in his blind spot. The Valarauko was so close to him now. Fingon had never been so near to one of them outside of battle. The creature had a very particular scent. 

The Valarauko was not the source of the sulfurous smell that hung in the air; that must be from the heat of the molten rock and whatever foul substances floated above it. No, the Valarauko smelled strongly like fire—but not a simple spark, or a merry campfire. It gave off the overwhelming odor of an inferno, of a blaze that could consume a city or leave an entire forest a smoking ruin. It was a smell that would revolt any Elf. Fingon gritted his teeth.

The scent was that of a cataclysm; there was no mistaking it. It reminded him suddenly of the cacophonous noise he had heard before awakening, which had been too discordant for him to forget. That had been the sound of a disaster. Were the two related, scent and sound? Had this creature made that terrible noise that had pulled him back to consciousness?

Fingon could not say for certain, as he could not guess what the Valarauko was doing with the helmet. He could only stare as it turned with the helmet in its claws and slipped back into the fire. Fingon gave a start, as he saw two glowing, symmetrical slits open on the back of its head. It had grown more eyes so it could continue to watch him while it departed. It moved quickly away from him, holding his helmet above the flames to preserve it. 

Once the beast was out of his sight, Fingon closed his eyes again. He would have preferred that the monster never return, although of course it would be back. It appeared to have taken offense at the thought that it was not taking adequate care of him, adding a new layer of mystification to his predicament. If he was dreaming, he wished he might wake soon. What a relief it would be, to open his eyes and see the faces of his comrades looking down upon him with concern. He would not even feel such great regret if what he saw upon awakening were the shifting shadows and lights of the Halls of Mandos.


	2. Rare and Precious

The screams were like music from his master's chorus: agonized, discordant, torn into shreds. The blood of the Elves smelled sweet, and he was hungry. He lived for battle, never more delighted than when he could rip his enemies into pieces and send out his fires to char every living thing and make the world a waste. This was freedom. He could do as he liked, destroy what he wished, unleash his power without limits. He would break all the world apart so his master could create a new and better one.

This was an excellent battle—and he had known so many conflicts, loved so many. There were countless enemies to destroy, their weak bodies vulnerable to heat and weapons and claws. When he unleashed his fires, without fail they found a target—or a number of them. He would not stop his frenzy. He could not. This was joy, it was why he lived. His people had been constrained for too long by the hateful Elves. They had been kept from their rightful place, their rule. He did not need to think. He needed to carry out his master's will. Master had given them one order, and that was: _kill_. So simple, so clear. Such a fine master! There was no one above him.

He was Címa. Címaruinë of the Valaraukar, the blaze like a blade, and he liked nothing better than to cut and tear and burn. His sword was dark and his whip was quick.

Far across the torn and bloody battlefield, Címa saw a cluster of his fellow Maiar had gathered into a great darkness, like a stormcloud. He raced to them, cutting through the crowd. Elves in his path felt the crack of his whip, the bite of his blade, the points of his claws. His aim was not to aid the other Maiar—but if they had drawn together, there must be a reason for it. A good fight or a good kill. A prize for his claws and teeth to sink into. He would not want to miss that.

The others had formed a ring around a group of Elves. Címa saw flags flying, but he barely registered them, more focused on the prey and eager for violence. The armor of the Elves was both shining and stained. Címa was hungry and excited, but he slowed to watch the flower of the Eldar struggle as Melkor's Maiar closed in on them. Cutting them off.

Above the center of the storm Gothmog towered: Címa's own lord, and first among the Valaraukar, who were the most powerful of Melkor's Maiar—save one. Gothmog's axe swung in a great arc, slicing through the tide of Elves as greater numbers of them rushed in. So many of the Elves were drawn here, as Címa had been drawn, combatants clustered more thickly in this one narrow stretch of churned earth than anywhere else on the field.

There were so many tempting targets for Címa's hunger, but he had grown curious, a question cutting through the fog of his bloodlust: _What are they protecting?_ When more Elves attacked him, Címa drove them all back with his flaming whip instead of disemboweling them. He barely felt the swords and spears that struck his hide. An unfamiliar heaviness pressed down on him, though it did not slow him. It spurred him on. What was it that called to him? It was no longer a pure desire to carry out his master's will and please himself through violence. This new sensation interfered with the hunger and hatred that were so familiar to him, the fuel for his fire. He pressed through the throng, his growl filling the air with thunder.

One of the Elves stood out sharply in the fray, much like Gothmog stood out among the Valaraukar. Armored in silver, gold, and blue, this Elf appeared larger and more vibrant than the rest, if small compared to Gothmog. Címa stared as this one Elf lashed out with his sword, the blow strong enough to cut into the body of one of the Valaraukar hemming him in. The injured Maia screamed in rage and pain, spouting fire and black blood. Címa recognized the injured one, as they had fought together before, but he was indifferent to their fate. He was far more interested in the Elf. The Elf shone. So bright. Not with fire, but a light from within. Ordinarily, the cursed light of the Elves would have stung his eyes and made him bare his teeth, but this time, with this Elf, it drew him closer.

Címa slithered past angry Elves and the attacking Valaraukar. To look. He had to see this Elf more clearly and closely. He could do nothing else, the need was so sharp. He felt that urge as a physical pain. He was cut as his comrade had been, but by a sword he could not see. 

Címa was not the only one focused on that single bright point. The gleaming Elf was left with no choice but to combat Gothmog, who bore down on him. The Elf darted back and forth to avoid his blows, while never ceasing to seek an opening to strike back. His evasions and lunges were so swift, Címa lost track of the course of his limbs. The Elf was faster, but the axe did not tire. It rose and fell without pause. No matter how the Elf dodged and sidestepped, the axe swung again and again. 

Interrupting this conflict would be foolish, an act of disrespect and a direct challenge to Gothmog. That did not mean Címa could not come closer. Yes, he could do that. He could watch. That was all he wanted. He would not interfere. Perhaps, when the axe finally swung true, he could taste the spray of the Elf's blood. Gothmog's task was not easy. Címa had never seen a solitary Elf withstand his great lord's full might for so long. The Elf was strong and skilled enough to land a few blows, but they did not do enough damage to repel Gothmog. More and more of the Elves surrounding the brightest one were struck down, and he would soon stand alone. 

The remaining Elves were so focused on the bright one and Gothmog's unending onslaught, they paid less attention to Címa. It was Címa who paid attention. He felt his flames grow hotter. They rose higher, more of them surging through the cracks in his skin. It was right to throw off flames in battle, but they had gone beyond his control, erratic and scalding. 

To Címa's own surprise, he sprang forward. His whip shot out, wrapping around the bright Elf at the waist, catching his arms in its length. The blade fell from the Elf's hand. The weapon lay on the dark earth, glittering. The Elf struggled, straining to free himself, but he was held fast. Gothmog glanced at Címa and laughed. Címa felt the heaviness within him expand and increase in weight. It was like a growing stone, filling him up and forcing the fire out of him in waves. His flames crackled, shooting out sparks. Gothmog raised his axe. His task was made much easier. The Elf could no longer dodge, thanks to Címa. Címa had done well. It was good to earn favor with Gothmog, as he was a lesser lieutenant. 

He had not done this to earn favor. 

The Elf had no means of escaping before the axe fell. He had been rendered defenseless. Gothmog's axe came down. In the same instant, Címa pulled back on the whip, roughly. Gothmog's blow landed, but with far less than its full force. The Elf stumbled back into Címa's arms. Címa took hold of him. He did not let him fall. His weapons dematerialized, dissolving into his body so he could better grasp his Elven burden. He drew in his flames, which could burn Elven flesh.

For an instant, the riot of the battlefield stilled. For the first time, Címa found himself in the exact center of the battle, of the war, standing in the calm heart of the whirlwind with an Elf in his grasp. His claws scraped armor as he tightened his grip. The attention of both Elves and Maiar was focused on him. So was their rage. 

Gothmog let out a piercing scream, and the voices of the Elves rose together in a battle cry as they turned their spears on him. Címa had never been so surprised by anything, yet every moment of it had been his own doing and no one else's.

Gothmog's axe struck again, and it cut into Címa's own flesh as Címa jumped back. Címa hissed, and so did the heat that escaped from his body. Elves struck at him too, and he tightened his grip on the one he was holding. Everyone wanted what he held. It was the greatest prize of the day. If he remained, he would be torn to pieces by his allies and his enemies. It would have been easiest and wisest for Címa to drop the Elf and retreat, yet that was not what Címa did. In a panic, he manifested his wings. They shot out from his back, shadowy and broad, and he did not wait another instant before leaping into the air with his prize.

As he flew, soaring up beyond the range of arrows, he glanced down at the Elf in his arms. He could smell the sweet blood of his wound, as it spilled out onto his arms. The Elf's face was obscured by the helm he wore, but Címa could sense he was breathing. Good. He was unable to comprehend the full import of what he had done, but he did not need to understand. He needed to act.

He was in violation of orders. His master had said to _kill_ , but that was not what he had done. The Elf was not dead. The Elf was—

_My Elf_ , he told himself. The thought both bewildered and reassured him, but he did not waste more time thinking while returning to Angband. All his energy was needed to sustain his altitude and his speed.

The flight was grueling. He had been injured by both Gothmog and the Elves, and he was relieved to reach his residence beneath the earth: the cavern of fire that belonged to him and no other. He let his wings fade and burned his way down through the stone, sealing it behind him with his own heat. His descent was more difficult than usual. Not only was he injured, but he had to spend additional energy on the mystifying effort of throwing up a shield of protection around the Elf. 

Creatures of flesh burned too easily. There was no place in this cavern where the Elf could rest safely, so Címa used up yet more power raising and then cooling an island of stone in the midst of the fire. There, that was better. Cool enough for an Elf to lie upon. Címa set him down carefully. The Elf yet breathed.

Címa did not have the energy to ponder his actions or their consequences. He had continued to expend energy after he was gravely wounded, and it had weakened him. He had not felt so frail since the Battle of the Powers. After that war, he had curled up deep in the earth. He had slept for a thousand years. Strength and flame continued to drain steadily from his body, and Címa had to soak himself in the molten rock to recover. He sank into the welcome warmth, letting it envelop him, but not completely. The top of his head remained above the fire. He must keep an eye on the Elf. Who could say when the Elf would wake, or what would happen once he did?

Címa faced too many uncertainties, but he was certain that his rest would be tenuous and interrupted. The consequences he had avoided considering would visit him much sooner than he'd prefer. He would not be allowed to sleep and recover first.

When his repercussions did arrive, they did not come with violence, but with a sweet tone. "Ah, Címa. Címaruinë." 

The sound of his name was a song, sung in the darkness. Címa opened new eyes in the back of his head, so he could gaze in the direction of the sound without turning away from the Elf.

Behind him, Lord Mairon glided across the surface of the molten rock. The pale gold of his trailing hair stood out against the deep red of the fire. He was so fair and so bright, it hurt to look upon him, but Címa could not look away. Lieutenant Mairon's arrival had taken longer than Címa had expected. The battle must have kept the others occupied and away for many hours.

Lord Mairon was smiling. He gestured with one hand, raising it and then curling his fingers gracefully as they glittered. "So, Címa, it seems you've done something no one cared for," he said lightly, as he drew near. "I have seldom witnessed an act that so deeply displeased all witnesses, no matter their affiliation."

Címa was not deceived by Mairon's kindly manner or fair words. He had been insubordinate, and disobedience was an offense that was always punished. He remained ensconced in the flames and grunted, reluctant to emerge. 

Mairon nodded, his smile unfaltering. "Yes, so I see. Do you think you could tell me about it? I would like to know your reasoning."

Címa did not _want_ to speak of it, but he had no choice in the matter, as the gentle question was undeniably a command. Mairon's rank in Angband was greater than every other Maiar, including Gothmog. In power, he was second only to Lord Melkor. In his current form, he was far smaller than Címa's chosen body, but the size of his manifestation was meaningless. Címa saw the size and prominence of his soul. 

"I took the Elf," Címa admitted, rising high enough to put his entire head above the surface of the fire.

"That is not in question. We are all well aware of that. Do you know which Elf you took?" When Címa did not answer immediately, Mairon supplied the answer to his own query. "The High King of the Noldor." As he said the words, he stepped onto the island of cool stone Címa had made, peering down at the Elf in the center of it.

Címa had not known which Elf he had taken. He had acted in such haste, responding to urges and not reason. It was obviously an Elf of great importance, but he had been loath to admit it. Such a prominent prize put his possession of it at risk. No wonder he had won the anger of all combatants. He had hoped that obtaining the Elf would lighten the heaviness in him, but it continued to weigh down on him. If the Elf could be taken from him at any moment, how could he rest again? He growled. 

Mairon raised his eyebrows. "Interesting," he said. He did not back away. "I should tell you, Gothmog is most displeased with you for robbing him of his rightful kill. He told me you should be punished. What do you think of that?"

"I do not think of it," sniffed Címa, raising his lip.

"Would you defy him, then?"

Címa was far behind Gothmog in terms of power. If he were his equal, his rank would be greater among the Maiar than sub-lieutenant. To challenge him would be foolishness and might cost him his physical form, forcing him to drift among the others who had been injured too severely to form solid bodies. "No," he said. "But I will keep the Elf."

"You will _keep_ him?"

"Yes."

"Címa, but why? To torture him? It's not that I can't understand the desire—"

The questions agitated him. He felt his hurts more keenly, and he growled again, despite the fact that he had no desire to anger Lord Mairon—who could be quick to anger, himself. "No," said Címa. He had never been so disobedient. Always, he had followed the orders of his lords. "I do not know why!"

Mairon remained unfazed in the face of growling. He was no less pleasant, which made him no less threatening. "You must have some idea. Or else why would you have taken him?"

Címa remained stubbornly silent. Lord Mairon's hair drifted around him like strands of the palest flame made into silk. "As you can see, I came myself rather than sending Gothmog to have his vengeance. I am not angry with you. I only wish to understand what you did. You've been an exceptional and dedicated servant for so many centuries, Címaruinë. Always loyal to the master, and we are grateful for that. So all you have to do is answer my question. You need not fear."

"To look upon him!" Címa admitted at last, with a huff of steam. 

"Oh? To look." Lord Mairon, for his part, had turned away from the Elf and was watching Címa, instead. He took delicate steps over the fire to join him, leaning down with a smile. He studied him with great attention, and Címa remained still and quiet beneath his scrutiny. "That interests me greatly," Lord Mairon said at last. "Do you think it was worth defying Gothmog, simply to look upon this Elf?"

"Yes," said Címa, though he should not have said so.

"Yes," Lord Mairon echoed, then laughed. His laughter filled the cavern, rising up into the darkness, deceptively light and melodic. "How interesting, Címa! You surprise me. And what if our master said you could not keep this Elf, what would you do then?"

Címa felt pain move through him at the thought, and he shuddered, disturbing the molten rock around him. "Ah—did Master say that?"

"I did not say that he did, but what _would_ you do?"

"I must do as Master wishes," said Címa quickly. "I will always do as Master commands."

"I am relieved to hear that," said Lord Mairon. "We only allow loyal servants here. But, you are a fortunate Maia. I have spoken with the master about this. Now that I have discussed the issue with you as well, I can tell you that you will be allowed to keep your Elf."

Címa rose up in excitement, but Lord Mairon quickly added, "There are a few conditions. The first is that you must keep him bound, and you must allow me to bind him." 

"I will do that," Címa agreed readily. "Bind him." 

"Also, he must stay in your domain. If he leaves for any reason, he will be killed. Immediately."

"I will keep him here." It was not as if he wanted the Elf to leave, so keeping him bound and confined was in his own interest. "He will not leave."

"Finally, you must do whatever our lord asks with this Elf. If he devises a purpose for him, then you will allow him to do as he pleases. But that will not be difficult for a loyal servant such as yourself."

"No," said Címa, "It will not." He meant his words, though he hated to think of the Elf being taken from him, even if it were at some point in the far future. He enjoyed studying the gleam of the Elf's armor and the shape of his body, such brightness upon the black stone. He did not want to let him go. It had never before occurred to him to keep one of the Elves, only to kill them, but now that he had an Elf of his own, it felt both right and deeply satisfying. 

He watched as Lord Mairon produced one of his glittering chains, forged in his hottest fires. He did not object as the Elf was bound. He had already been given so much by his master, he would accept this. Was it not better for the Elf to be bound, for his own sake? If he was not, he might try to escape, and then he would be killed. Címa drew near, resting his claws on the edge of the stone island, staring.

Lord Mairon bent and removed the helmet from the Elf's head. Címa leaned in to stare as the metal was pulled away and the long, dark hair beneath spilled free. The black strands were woven throughout with threads of pure gold. Both hair and gold gleamed. The Elf's skin glowed faintly. Címa was used to looking on Elves with loathing, but for this one, what he felt was fascination. The High King of the Noldor… He should have realized that sooner. The banners flying, the Valaraukar intent on killing him… Within the moment, he had not bothered to think of such a thing, or anything. He had not cared who the Elf was, or about anything other than his will to seize him. 

"He is badly injured," Mairon sighed. "The Eldar are so much weaker than we are."

Címa crept closer, eyes narrowing. The Elven features were so delicate and small. He ordinarily would have disliked their glow, but in this case he did not mind it. His Elf would die? The thought moved through his mind slowly, it was so alien. His Elf could not die. He needed the Elf to stay alive, so he could continue to look upon him. 

Mairon laughed again. Each time he laughed, his laughter sharpened slightly. Soon it would be sharp enough to cut him. "I have never seen such a worried look on the face of any Maia! Do not fear. I will heal him. Only a little. Not too much—we don't want the Eldar to forget their place—but enough to ensure he will not die." 

Lord Mairon's power was vast, his talent unmatched among Maiar. There was nothing he could not shape. He could turn his own body into any form he dreamed of. Shaping the body of an Elf to knit flesh and reform veins, tendons, and bones was no struggle for him. He had made far greater alterations to Elves in the past.

"So, Címa, what do you think of your prize?" asked Lord Mairon. "Do you find him fair?"

Címa peered up at Lord Mairon, blinkin. A troubling question. To find an Elf fair… Was that possible?

Mairon put a hand on him, pressing it down onto his shoulder. Pale fire rose from Mairon's palm, framing his fingers. Címa could feel it, hotter than his own fire. Yet there had been a moment on the battlefield—his fires had grown so hot, out of his control, blazing wildly in all directions. "You feel a strange sensation now, unlike anything you have felt before. Is that not so?" Mairon asked. 

"It is strange, yes."

"As I thought. What does it feel like?"

"Like a stone. Inside me. It grows."

"Is it so very heavy, Címa?"

"It is."

"I would expect your symptoms to be unique. This is something that has happened before, although it is extremely rare. _We_ would not have thought it could happen here."

When Mairon used that particular form of _we_ in the language he had created for them to speak, he referred to himself in partnership with Lord Melkor. It was a word that denoted only the two of them, in allegiance. It was a powerful word, with a force of its own. Címa understood that Mairon had been in communication with Lord Melkor throughout their conversation, sharing his senses with him. He was often joined to the master in that way, an extension of him. 

"Tell me, Címa, what do you want to do with him?"

Címa did not know how to answer, unable to think of anything beyond the importance of not being separated from the Elf. What to do? He was still watching the Elf, and he had continued to do so as Mairon spoke to him, in spite of the disrespect shown by his divided attention. He felt he would never stop looking. He liked the way the gold in the Elf's hair gleamed in the firelight.

"Whatever your aims, I hope you will enjoy him," Mairon said, when Címa failed to formulate a reply. "Our lord is so generous!"

"Our lord is generous," Címa echoed, sincerely. It was thanks to Lord Melkor that he could keep his Elf and would not know the pain of losing him. He felt the deep rush of feeling that none but a Maia could experience—that of love and worship of his lord. He opened his mouth and began to sing. It was a song of Melkor's might and glory—of his dominion over the world and his power to remake it. He sang of his lord's destruction with the hope of willing it into being, of creating a victory and a new world for him through song, as the world had first been created by music so long ago. He sang with all his might and thunder.

Lord Mairon did not join in with him, but Címa could feel Mairon's touch, all through his music, augmenting and shaping it. He was the singer, but Mairon was the conductor. As Címa was of fire and earth, so was his song, but it was also a song of his great lord, his god, with Melkor's ice and darkness twisting all through it. It was so good to sing; there was no pursuit more satisfying than praising his lord. He did so with his every thought and action—except that one time: when he had taken the Elf from the field. He had done that with no thought for anyone but himself, though he had meant no insult to his lord.

Again, thoughts of the Elf distracted him. Címa's great song began to waver.

"Your Elf is waking," said Mairon suddenly.

Címa broke off. He could see no sign of movement in the Elf yet, but Mairon had a better sense of Elves' strengths and weaknesses, and of how their bodies functioned. If he said the Elf was waking, then he was.

Mairon laughed. "It would be better if he did not see me here." His body began to dissolve, the glow of him spreading and brightening, transforming into a glimmering cloud of white gold before drifting up and into the darkness, toward Lord Melkor and his throne. Címa was left alone with his Elf. His Elf would not enjoy the sight of him, either. 

Címa heard a shift in the Elf's breathing. It deepened and roughened, almost voiced. There was struggle in it. The Elf was fighting to awaken. 

Uncertain, Címa chose a course of action that no Valarauko would take willingly: he retreated, sinking into the fire. He left only the top of his head exposed. He thickened and textured his skin, giving it an appearance more like a stone. He could not shape himself nearly so well as Mairon, especially not when so weakened by wounds and loss of power. Mairon had healed the Elf, but Címa's wounds had been ignored. This must have been to punish him for his insubordination. Disobedience must be punished, but he counted himself fortunate. He had not lost his flesh, and he had been allowed to keep the Elf.

Címa could have submerged himself completely and disappeared from the Elf's sight. Usually, he would do exactly that following a battle. After expending most of his strength in service of his lord, he would rest and recover within the heat of the fire for years, if necessary. If he were to do that now, he would break direct eye contact with the Elf. He could not bear that. He wanted to watch him breathe and gleam, as the sight of him made the heavy weight Címa carried more tolerable. 

_The High King of the Noldor_. That title did not matter to him as much as the certainty that the Elf was his own, yet he did wish to learn more about him. Címa should have asked Mairon for his name, for he longed to know it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note on names/languages: Címaruinë basically means the edge (as of a blade) of a blaze, or a blaze with a blade-edge. I joke with myself that this means he is a flaming edgelord. That's it, that's the note! No, a bit more: I use both Quenya and Sindarin names/terms, based on familiarity and preference—as all the characters speak both, some much more expertly than others.
> 
> Since Címa thinks and speaks in Black Speech, he's not using Elvish terms unless he's speaking to Fingon, so I'm approximating. When speaking Elvish, his dialect is extremely strange, and he sometimes uses a Sindarin word instead of a Quenya one (or vice versa), or uses the wrong word entirely—though Fingon is usually able to understand him. I did include a little of this in the dialogue to give a sense of it, but I didn't want it to be too repetitive.


End file.
